


Sporked

by Retro Lipstickcat (Lipstickcat)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:31:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstickcat/pseuds/Retro%20Lipstickcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley's a pro with pitchforks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sporked

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2005 - I am transferring it to this archive unedited.

Of course, he knew how to wield a pitch fork with ease. It wasn't his chosen accessory, in fact he'd never held one in living memory, and it had been a very long life, but it came with the territory: An ingrained knowledge of exactly how to brandish it, the best action to get a good jab in, which end to hold, and so on….

He'd come across sporks whilst playing around on the internet. Trolling, he'd found, was a great way to bruise the souls of essentially pretty cool people. He liked to keep up-to-date with technology. He'd had to swallow his pride and ask a community what they meant by "*sporks*", and they'd been so eager to explain and impart their wisdom, such as it was.

Finding one in real life, (RL, he was getting into this net lark), wasn't easy, he had to go to an extremely posh silverware shop and buy a whole dinner set. He left the shop feeling a little deflated, a lot poorer and wondering which side the snooty sales clerk was on.

But it was all worth it, now he could put all that he knew to practise.

He carefully slid the spork out from its hiding place up his sleeve, the cool handle felt like it belonged in his hand and he gripped it firmly. Perhaps he should invest in a pitchfork. He took the required few steps forward, softly placing his feet so that his target wouldn't get wind of his approach. He slowly drew his arm back, feeling like his muscles were a coiled spring, waiting to release a great pendulum.

He let his arm swing forward. The spork jabbed gratifyingly into its soft fleshy goal. Aziraphale squeaked and jumped a foot into the air.

The angel spun around, an icy anger in his clear blue eyes, as he laid a hand over his assaulted posterior. He took one look at Crowley standing there, arm still brought forward, still clutching the offending item, not at all looking like a picture of innocence, and his expression softened.

"Really Crowley," he sighed. "That's not how you use a crab fork."

Before the demon could argue, Aziraphale had plucked the piece of cutlery from his grip. Crowley was about to resign himself to a lesson in good table manners when the angel suddenly lunged forwards and stabbed him, quite violently, in the arm.

"That," Aziraphale smiled smugly, "is how you do it."


End file.
